


The Mail Order Bride

by Zosimos_Zinky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Drama & Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mail Order Brides, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Slow Burn, Western, Wild West AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25974847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zosimos_Zinky/pseuds/Zosimos_Zinky
Summary: Wild West AU / SanSan pairing.Sansa flees Vale City under a fake identify on a stagecoach taking her to the small frontier town of Kennel Keep. There, her groom-to-be awaits his mail order bride...*(Trigger warnings given at the start of chapters where necessary)*
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 97
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

There were blood stains on the cuffs of one of Sansa’s sleeves.

The inky, navy blue fabric of her dress concealed the dark stain fairly well and dust that filtered in through the flaps covering the stagecoach’s windows dirtied her clothing and helped further conceal the stain. Nonetheless, its presence unnerved Sansa, leaving her with a roiling sensation of nausea tumbling about in her stomach.

The landscape outside the six-horse stagecoach windows’ was rather bland; nothing but miles and miles of open grassland long since turned from lush green to crispy brown by the summer’s prolonged heat. The road – though calling it a road was a smidge too generous – was arduous and bumpy. Each time the carriage went over a particularly big hole, jostling its occupants about harshly, Sansa could hear the groan of the wood and metal and prayed to whatever God that might still be listening to her that a wheel did not give way.

While nobody from the life she was fleeing could possibly suspect that she had spirited away from the city in this stagecoach, Sansa vehemently wanted to put as much distance between her and Vale City as quickly as humanely possible. A broken wheel would only hinder this and make it more likely that she would be caught.

With each passing day since the scenery of the cramped, smelly city had faded into the wide open road leading out West, Sansa felt the panic that had laid siege to her heart during her escape start to ebb. With each mile the stagecoach covered and left behind, a tightness in her chest eased slightly and she breathed a little easier than she had in years.

Her companions had not been put out by Sansa’s quietness along their travels. Besides herself, five other women and two men were traveling out West.

“It’s alright to be nervous,” Lollys had said to her the first night the stagecoach had bedded down in the wilderness. “This is like a big adventure we’re going on, but you’ll see, it’ll all turn out right in the end.”

The women had been given the stagecoach to sleep in at night, while the male passengers, the driver and the guard camped outside. Shae had cast Lollys a look full of scepticism which was perhaps combined with a small amount of derision.

“And you know this, how?” Shae had asked.

“By the letters, of course. Surely neither none of us would be here if we thought what awaits us at the end of the line would be horrible,” Lollys had answered, her plump cheeks lifting in a friendly smile.

Neither Shae nor Sansa had replied.

Sansa had become more adept at reading people in recent years, a skill garnered by necessity. As her and Shae’s gaze had met that night, Sansa had seen a steely guardedness in the other woman’s eyes that led her to believe that just like herself, Shae would gladly take _‘horrible at the end of the line’_ over whatever she had left behind in Vale City.

She wondered too, a little worriedly, if Shae had seen something similar in her own blue eyes.

Even if Shae had, Sansa took a sliver of comfort in doubting that if the woman, or any of the other stagecoach travellers, were to notice the blood stain on her dress sleeve, that they would surmise that the blood had come from the man she had murdered one week prior.

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks soon became a month, the end of the stagecoach’s long and arduous journey finally came into sight. Sansa had learned a lot about her fellow traveling companions in the last month; more from what they did not share than what they did.

Lollys Stokeworth was still optimistically clinging to the notion that she would find happiness when they reached their destination and she had left behind an overbearing older sister who thought otherwise.

“She said I wouldn’t be anything but a spinster. A fat, lonely spinster,” Lollys had said, her cheerful demeanour growing sad for a moment. “But I’ll show her!”

Joy Erenford was a little mouse of a woman, barely old enough to be out of childhood, and had offered up even less information about herself than Sansa had. Though Sansa put this down to the younger woman’s painful shyness rather than her purposefully withholding details about herself. It seemed that the poor girl had a large number of siblings, so many in fact that her parents had given her until the end of the summer to find herself a husband, in order to take the financial burden of looking after her off of their hands, or she would be put out on the streets to fend for herself.

Sansa pitied the girl for her circumstances, but had offered her no kind words of reassurance and had instead let Lollys comfort her when she had started tearing up.

Obara Sand and Shae Lorassyon were not from Westeros, but Dorne and Lorath respectively. From what Sansa could gather, which was not much as Obara was rather unfriendly and Shae was not very forthcoming about her past, it seemed they too were both journeying out West to better improve their prospects in life. Shae was perhaps the most tight-lipped about her past and, Sansa had noticed, rather talented at redirecting the conservation when it strayed towards it.

The remaining woman, Melisandre, was married to one of the men, a preacher by the name of Beric Dondarrion. Traveling with them was Thoros Myr, a friend and colleague of the holy man.

“Kennel Keep, ahead! One mile to the Keep!” the stagecoach driver cried out above the noise of the horses’ hooves.

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

“What do you think yours will look like?” Tyrion Lannister asked his close friend as they waited in the saloon for the stagecoach to appear.

The stagecoach was three days past due and people had started to worry. Such a delay was not unheard of; bad weather, a broken yoke or a lame horse could all reasonably account for it. However, robbery by highwaymen was another equally possible reason why the stagecoach might be running behind schedule. With the precious cargo the stagecoach was bringing them, the men gathered together awaiting its arrival were growing increasingly angsty with each hour that passed without nary a sign of its coming.

“Don’t care. Not as long as she’s got nice, big tits,” Bronn replied, miming burying his face in the aforementioned bosom.

Sandor tapped the wooden bar top, indicating he wanted his shot of whiskey refilled. Podrick, the barkeep, quickly hurried to comply. Sandor did not want to get too deep into his cups in case the stagecoach did arrive today, but the inane prattle of the men waiting with him for its arrival was made more tolerable with each gulp of golden liquid that burned its way down his throat.

Not that Sandor would admit to it, but the whiskey also helped to calm his nerves. Three days was an awful long time to be waiting on a woman, all the while grasping to an almost non-existent hope that she would not turn tail and run after getting one look at his disgusting, mangled face. Melisandre Dondarrion, the so called _‘Matchmaker Melisandre’_ , had assured him that the woman she had put him in touch with would not balk at his appearance, but Sandor was far too long in the tooth to take her word for it.

“Suppose if she ain’t either, you can just turn her ‘round and take her from behind,” came the croaky, old voice of Walder Frey.

It was something any of the other men present might have bantered about, but coming from Walder Frey the joke fell flat. He had been telling everyone who would listen to him about the young, _young_ bride he had sent off for. It seemed most folk hoped the poor girl would take one look at the old lech and get straight back on the stagecoach. Payment for a return ticket for the women, should they not find the men to their liking, was in Melisandre’s matchmaking contract after all.

_‘That’ll be at least two women headed back to Vale City then.’_

What a bunch of sorry, old bastards they made. The only good man among them, the only man who would make a decent husband to the poor women journey so far to reach them, was Ray Brothers.

_‘It was fucking Ray who talked you into this mess.’_

Sandor was not sure what he was more afraid of: that his mail order bride would take one look at his face and either be so horrified or terrified that she would demand to be put on the next stagecoach leaving the Keep; or that the woman would stay and bind herself to him in holy matrimony. In his mind, any woman that would be willing to do the latter would have to be blind, half-witted, or completely and utterly desperate. He had been honest in his description of his countenance, manner, and financials, but words on a page could hardly prepare his potential bride-to-be for the true horror that was his face.

“Where’s Brothers run off to today? Not left you with two lovely brides, now has he?” Tyrion called over from where he was sat.

Sandor grit his teeth, not bothering to turn around to the saloon’s other patrons. “He’s got business over at the Greyjoy Ranch today, but he’ll be back for supper time.”

Tyrion sighed loudly, looking out the saloon windows at the darkening sky. “I suppose the stagecoach will stop for the night now; it’s getting rather late. Perhaps it’ll reach us tomorrow.”

There were a few disappointed murmurs of agreement, followed by the scrapping of chairs being pushed back. Someone’s back popped as they stretched it and one of the other men let out a yawn. Waiting around doing nothing but drinking and playing cards all day could sure tired a man out.

“They’re here! They’re here!” Lommy’s excited cry could be heard before he and Hot Pie burst through the saloon doors, sending them swinging in their wake. “They’re here, Mr Lannister. Coach will be pullin’ up on Main Street any minute.”

Tyrion had paid the boys a few pennies each to sit on the highest hill outside of town and keep an eye out for the stagecoach.

Bronn clapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly. “Let’s go boys!”

Sandor cursed Ray under his breath as he followed behind the other three men as they headed to Main Street. He had not even wanted to send off for a wife in the first place and he sure as shit did not want to be meeting her for the first time without Ray by his side. Ray might actually be able to talk to the poor woman, while at best all he could is grunt and growl at her.

“I’m goin’ to get me a wife,” Ray had said to him one evening almost a year ago as they were both nursing a coffee and overlooking the ranch they shared.

Sandor had raised his one good eyebrow at his friend’s sudden proclamation, more than a little surprised at the news. “And just where are you gunna find you one of them?”

Ray took out a folded up newspaper cutting from his shirt pocket and handed it over to Sandor.

“ _‘Melisandre’s Matchmaking’_?! The fuck you want to do this for, Ray?”

“For the government’s new grant for married couples out West. Marry a girl from back East and they’ll double the spread you own. Produce two children in the followin’ five years and they’ll double it again. With the way Tywin Lannister is buyin’ up land all the way from here to Casterly Rock, I think it would be a smart idea to expand the ranch… Lest it be taken from us,” Ray explained, taking back the advertisement from Sandor. “Besides, I loved my first wife dearly. Taking a second might not turn out the same way, but I’m sure I could find a good companion and helpmate. You’re all well and good, Sandor, but I don’t particularly want you keepin’ me warm on those long, cold Winter nights.”

Sandor huffed. He was not a fan of the idea of bringing a woman out to the ranch he and Ray shared, but the Lannister patriarch was starting to look like he might become a very serious problem.

“Suppose it’d be the smart thing to do,” Sandor mumbled and took a drink of his coffee.

Even with the ranch doing well, there was no way Ray could double the portion of land he owned any time soon without this new government grant, so Sandor could begrudgingly see the sense in Ray’s plan.

“I’m glad you agree,” Ray smiled, then added, “‘cause I think you should take a wife too.”

Sandor choked on his coffee.

Some of the dark liquid escaped out of the ruined side of his mouth as he coughed, trying to clear his throat. When he had recovered sufficiently, he turned his angry glare on his friend.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughin’, Sandor. I’m serious. I think you should take a wife too. Between us we would quadruple the ranch and if any little ‘uns come along, then it’d grow even more. Tywin Lannister would have a mighty hard time turfin’ us out then.”

“No,” Sandor ground out. “Abso _fucking_ lutely not.”

Sandor put the mug of coffee aside and reached for the hip flask he kept with him. If he was going to have to listen to his friend’s hare-brained, loony, and downright idiotic idea that he marry, then he was not going to suffer through it sober.

“And why not? Never mind the government grant, a wife would do you good. She could iron out some of your surly edges,” Ray replied, unphased by Sandor’s mounting displeasure.

“Oh, aye,” Sandor laughed bitterly, then brought his hand up to his face. “I’m sure there’s some poor woman out there just dyin’ to have my _‘surely edges’_ on top of her for the rest of her sorry days.”

Ray was silent for a moment, before quietly saying, “Sandor Clegane, if, in all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve not taught you that you are much more than just your face, then I haven’t taught you very much at all.”

Sandor had clenched his teeth together so hard that they had hurt, before storming inside the house and slamming the door.

He had thought the conversation about wives forgotten, but Ray had broached the subject with him again a week later. He had refused.

He had refused a month afterwards too when word had reached town that Tywin had taken over the Umber Ranch.

He refused again two months after that when Ray told him that Tywin had also acquired the Hornwood and Reed ranches.

Similarly, he did not acquiesce when two months after that the Marbrand ranch mysteriously burnt down and Tywin bought it from the bank after they had foreclosed on it.

Tywin’s reach was creeping closer and closer to Kennel Keep and the ranches surrounding it, but Sandor still refused to consider taking any woman as his wife. Clegane women did not fare well, their fates seemingly more tortuous and worse than the last, and Sandor was not about to subject any woman to being forever bound to the ugly dog that he was.

It was not until news reached Kennel Keep about the Mormont Ranch that Sandor’s answer changed.

Mormont Ranch was one of the largest and best established operations in the area. Jorah Mormont had turned down an offer from Tywin Lannister not three months beforehand. Subsequently, after a drawn out court battle, Jorah had been forced to forfeit all his land by a local judge. Neither Sandor nor Ray doubted that the judge had been bribed with Lannister gold, but the bullshit reason given for the forfeiture of the ranch was ‘railroad safety’, despite the fact that no railroad ran anywhere near the town of Kennel Keep.

Tywin Lannister had been awarded the Mormont land by the very same judge shortly afterwards on the grounds that his business dealings had strong ties to the railroads.

“If Tywin can just take Mormont Ranch like that,” Ray snapped his fingers, “then he could easily take our smaller ranch from us too.”

Sandor had hated to admit it, but his friend was right. He hated the thought of taking a wife, but he despised the very real possibility of losing all he and Ray had worked so hard for even more.

The final push Sandor needed, the final nail in the coffin, was when a letter arrived at the ranch from Tywin Lannister. Inside the envelope contained an offer to buy their ranch.

“Fucking fine,” Sandor had spat, the letter with its fancy writing and delicate paper scrunching up into a ball in his fist. “I’ll take a fucking wife.”

As the first woman got out of the stagecoach, aided by a man with a preacher’s white dog collar around his neck, Sandor once again cursed Ray Brothers to every god he had ever heard of. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he took his place besides the other men.

The first woman to exit the stagecoach was a pump blonde. She might be pretty in a home-grown sort of way, Sandor supposed. She was looking around her new surroundings and chatting excitedly to the next woman to exit the carriage, a slip of a girl in a dress that looked like it had been patched dozens of times over the years and who kept her eyes glued firmly to the ground. It was with no small amount of consternation that Sandor, Bronn and Tyrion hoped that the second woman was not the “young, _young_ bride” intended for Walder Frey. The girl could not be a day over fourteen, if that.

Sandor glanced over at Walder, a man at least double – if not triple – his own age, and saw how his eyes were eating up the girl as his tongue snaked out over his yellowed teeth to wet his cracked lips.

The third woman clocked the men as soon as she stepped down from the stagecoach. She was quite the looker, this one. Her brunette curls bounced around her heart-shaped face as she promptly left her companions behind and marched over to the awaiting men.

The men immediately stood up straighter, even crusty, old Frey.

The alluring woman stopped in front of them and seemed to quickly size up each man in turn, before her gaze lowered and stopped at Tyrion Lannister.

“My Lion?” she all but purred.

Before Tyrion could open his mouth to reply, Walder interrupted him. “Surely a pretty morsel like you doesn’t want to be spendin’ her days and nights with the Halfman?”

The old man’s beady eyes dropped to the woman’s chest and his tongue darted out again to lick his lips.

The woman narrowed her eyes at Walder Frey and tutted. “If his cock is half the length he says it is in his letters, then I do not care about his height.”

Bronn guffawed loudly besides Tyrion and the dwarf looked pleased as punch as he extended his hand towards his bride. The foreign beauty placed her hand in his and smiled at him as he kissed it.

“Miss Lorassyon,” Tyrion greeted her. “Oh, we will get along just fine.”

Even Sandor felt the muscles in his good cheek twitch upwards slightly at the woman’s cheeky boldness. It seemed Walder Frey was the only one among them unimpressed by her response.

“Mister Blackwater?” the plump blonde asked, coming up behind the other woman.

The relief on her face was palpable when Bronn tipped his hat to her and she realised her groom-to-be was neither Walder nor Sandor.

A vibrant flash of red behind the plump blonde caught Sandor’s eye. He lifted his gaze to meet the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen in his entire, sorry life. Sandor took in the woman they belonged to and found that any woman he had ever laid eyes on before her paled in comparison.

Shock registered across her expression as she took in the sight of him, but Sandor saw how she quickly schooled her features to appear as if she were not aghast by his disfigured face and menacing stature.

Brave little thing that she was, she walked forwards and came to stand right in front of him. Sandor was transfixed, his eyes never leaving hers, as she did so.

“Are you Mister Brothers?” the redhead asked, offering him a tentative smile. “I’m Ros Turnippe.”

Understanding came upon him like the agonising _crack_ of a whip.

_‘Fuck.’_

Sandor continued to stare at the redheaded woman before him for several long moments and watched as she frowned slightly and fidgeted nervously with her sleeve.

A whole new vitriol of expletives involving Ray flooded his mind as he slowly shook his head.

“No, girl, I’m not your groom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahaha... Did you think Sansa was going to be Sandor's bride?
> 
> Please leave a review and let me know what you think so far! This is the first fanfic I've written in over five years so I'm rather nervous about it :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you so much to everyone who took the time to read these first two chapters, subscribe, bookmark and leave kudos and an EXTRA BIG thank-you to all my lovely reviewers. It's a fabulous feeling knowing that people are enjoying the story so far and my writing <3

“No, girl, I’m not your groom,” the scarred stranger finally said. 

Sansa did not think she had met a larger man in all her life. She was considered a tall woman, but he dwarfed her by almost a foot. His stature was equally impressive. Incredibly broad shoulders lead down to very muscular arms and a thick-set torso. To say the man looked strong would be a terribly unjust understatement. 

If she had not been so nervous, Sansa might have found the juxtapositioning of this behemoth of a man stood next to the blond dwarf almost comical.

The stranger held Sansa’s gaze for a while longer, his slate grey eyes boring into her with an unnerving intensity that made her look away and shift uncomfortably. It was not just the man’s regard, which felt profoundly marked and held no small amount of scrutiny, that made her do so, but also his terrible countenance. While it could be argued that the Gods had sculpted the man’s impressive physique, the same could not be said for his face. Indeed, one might go as far as saying that the Gods had cursed it. A maze of mangled, twisted scar tissue consisting of varying shades of ugly pinks, browns and off-whites covered much of the right half of his face. The horrific disfigurement had left the man with a drooping right brow which bore no eyebrow and half of his mouth without lips. The scars encompassing his right cheek started close to his crooked nose, though those were mostly obscured by the man’s dark beard and long black hair.

Sansa had managed to quickly school her features and had hidden her initial shock upon first laying eyes on the man after she had stepped down off the stagecoach, even maintaining his gaze when it had found her and offering him a tentative smile. After all, if he had been Mister Brothers it would not have done to offend the man before she had even made his acquaintance.

Sansa’s eyes flickered over to the last remaining man, the other two already having claimed Shae and Lollys. He was much older than the rest of the men, probably by two or more decades. As Sansa took in his greasy hair, dirty fingernails, and unkempt clothing that hung loosely on his gangly, hunched over body, he turned from hungrily appraising Joy who was still rooted to the spot by the stagecoach, to letting his gaze lewdly rove over Sansa. 

The old man’s gaze was lecherous, his eyes dropping quickly to her breasts and waist while he wetted his cracked lips. It was when he adjusted himself in his trousers without shame and grinned wickedly at Sansa’s subsequently horrified expression that she turned back to the stranger, the question she was too scared to ask written across her face.

“That ain’t Ray, girl,” the stranger quickly answered her unspoken worry.

Sansa let out a breath she did not realise she had been holding in, the sickening anxiety inside of her chest easing just slightly at the knowledge that the disgusting, licentious old man was not her husband-to-be. Her staggering relief must have been plainly obvious on her face as the stranger frowned at her and whipped his head around to glare at the man. 

The man, who was now palming himself over his trousers while openly leering salaciously at Sansa, jumped slightly when he met the stranger’s eyes and all but ran away towards the stagecoach when the much larger man took a menacing step towards him.

“Fuckin’ creep,” the stranger spat. 

While Sansa was grateful that the older man had been scared off, the stranger’s face had contorted into a thunderous expression that frightened her. He held his fists clenched at his sides and his anger pulled at his scars in a way that made them appear even more obvious and terrible.

Sansa took a reflexive step backwards in alarm, causing the stranger’s grey eyes to snap back to her. She tried not to show that he was scaring her, but feared she was unsuccessful. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth and regarded her, his earlier ire now directed at her.

“Ray - Mister Brothers - will be along later,” the stranger ground out. “I’m his partner out on the ranch, so you best get used to stomachin’ my face, girl.”

Sansa swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, but she willed herself to be brave. She had dealt with men far more terrifying than the one standing before her, she reminded herself. She stuck out her hand in greeting, but try as she might, she could not rid herself of the slight tremble in her fingers.

“Pardon me, I am sorry if I offended you,” Sansa began, “Mister…?”

The stranger frowned at her again, his mouth set in a grim line as he looked between her face and her outstretched hand, as if trying to discern if she were playing a trick on him.

“Clegane,” the stranger answered, his voice only slightly less harsh than before.

He did not shake her hand, nor take it and place a chaste kiss on it as a gentleman might, so after a moment’s hesitation Sansa withdrew it.

“Oh, you are Miss Sand’s groom,” Sansa replied quickly. She turned around and waved at Obara, before gesturing back towards Mister Clegane. “Obara, your Mister Clegane is here.”

Obara’s eyes traveled from where she had been surveying the small homes and businesses up and down Main Street, her expression giving away that she was clearly unimpressed with what she found, to the tall man stood behind Sansa.

While Sansa had managed to tamp down her shock over Mister Clegane’s unexpectedly harsh appearance in an effort to be polite and courteous, the same could not be said for Obara. On the contrary, the Dornish woman did not even try to hide her disgust. She made no bones about what she thought about the man Melisandre had paired her with as she rounded on matchmaker, spitting out Dornish curses.

“You expect me to marry  _ that _ ? You told me the man was not  _ handsome _ , not that he was missing  _ half of his face _ !”

The end of her sentence was practically shouted and Obara’s voice carried easily down Main Street. While the evening was drawing in, there was still a fair few number of people milling around and Obara’s shouting caught the attention of several passersby who stopped to stare at the commotion. Sansa could only guess that in a town this small, Obara’s outburst at Mister Clegane’s expense would be talked about for weeks.

Sansa inwardly winced at the scene, feeling sympathy for Mister Clegane. On the periphery of her vision, she could see the man tense and the other grooms shooting him pitying glances.

_ ‘The poor man cannot help his appearance.’ _

However, if she were being completely honest with herself, she would not have liked to have stepped off the stagecoach as a mail order bride, after crossing mile upon mile of rugged, dangerous terrain, to find her husband-to-be had such an awfully gnarled and fearsome countenance as Mister Clegane did.

_ ‘Still, were I Obara, I would have declined the man’s marriage proposal in private as not to humiliate him as she is doing.’ _

“ENOUGH!” Mister Clegane’s voice boomed out, causing roosting pigeons to take flight from the rafters of the surrounding buildings and everyone in the vicinity to look towards him.

The outburst startled Sansa, who was still standing in front of Mister Clegane. Obara’s loud ranting ceased, as did Melisandre’s attempts at placating the woman, and poor, little Joy looked about ready to start crying, her lips and chin wobbling slightly with the effort not to do so.

“You’ve said your piece, woman. Now, such your fuckin’ mouth.”

In the tense silence that followed, no one dared to move or speak lest they incur Mister Clegane’s wrath. Only quiet sniffling from Joy and the huffing of the coach horses could be heard until the gentle  _ clip clop _ of a horse’s hooves sounded from somewhere along the street and a man sat astride a skewbald Cob rounded the stagecoach. He appeared surprised by the scene before him, but took it in his stride. He leveled Mister Clegane with an almost scolding look before he dismounted.

“Evenin’ all,” he said cheerfully and took off his hat. He dipped his head slightly to greet the ladies present and glanced between Sansa and Melisandre a couple of times before approaching the older woman. “Missus Turnippe?”

“No,” Melisandre replied coolly. “ _ I _ am Melisandre Dondarrion of  _ ‘Melisandre’s Matchmaking’ _ .  _ That  _ there is Missus Turnippe.”

The newcomer seemed taken aback. 

“Oh, I am sorry. I saw the red hair and since you’re -  _ ahem _ … Well, I just assumed,” he explained before turning and approaching Sansa. He held out his hand in greeting. “Missus Turnippe, I’m Ray Brothers.”

Sansa regarded the man before her. He was probably her senior by twenty years or so and she could clearly see that a life outdoors in the elements had weathered his face. The deep creases around his green eyes gave him a softer look and the wrinkles she could discern at the corners of his mouth suggested that he smiled often and easily. Indeed, the smile he was now offering her appeared very kind.

“How do you do, Mister Brothers? I am pleased to make your acquaintance at long last.”

Sansa returned Ray’s smile, those hers was one of politeness rather than excitement at finally meeting her intended. She took Ray’s outstretched hand and he bent to place a light kiss on her knuckles before straightening back up.

“Oh, I’m just grand,” Ray replied, his smile growing wider as he took in his new bride.

“Since we are all present and accounted for, shall we proceed to the temple?” Beric Dondarrion suggested, gesturing to the small group to follow him. 

A collective murmur of agreement responded. 

Ray offered to carry Sansa’s bag once it was unloaded from the stagecoach’s roof. She was secretly very reluctant to part with it for it contained all the meagre belongings she had to her name in this world, but she could not think of a logical reason to refuse the man’s chivalrous offer.

“Your journey here must have been rather arduous and long, Missus Turnippe. It’s no small stretch ‘tween here and Vale City,” Ray remarked as they walked beside each other towards the temple of R'hllor on the outskirts of town.

_ ‘You have no idea,’  _ is what Sansa thought grimly, but she replied politely instead with, “The weather was pleasant enough and we did not encounter any real dangers along the way. Our only delay resulted from the difficulty we encountered when the stagecoach attempted to cross over the Trident River. It had swollen so much with the recent rainfall that we had to make a detour to find a shallower place to cross.”

“Ah, yes, floodin’ can be a problem ‘round these parts if we get a lot of rain,” Ray nodded.

The short walk to the temple allowed Sansa to take in what she could of the little frontier town. Kennel Keep was barely a speck on the map. You could take a nice, long blink as you were riding through it and miss it entirely. Ray made polite conversation with her, pointing out the general store, the bank and the hotel as they walked past them. It was a far cry from the affluent neighbourhood she had lived in in Vale City, but it certainly had a charming quality to it. From what she saw of Main Street, Sansa could tell that while there clearly did not seem to be any money to spare, Kennel Keep was well looked after by its residents. The paint may have been chipping on the general store, but there were cheerful hanging baskets of colourful flowers either side of the entrance that someone had taken time and care in tending to.

The temple of R'hllor was set on the edge of the town. A blood red building with a tall spire above it where a single flame burned, it stood out against the brown grass and rolling green hills surrounding it.

“It’s a new addition. Built mostly for the miners a couple of years back,” Ray told her as it came into view. “I’m a Seven man myself, like I said in my letters, as are most of the townsfolk. We can get the marriage blessed in a sept next Sunday, if you wanted to.”

Sansa merely nodded, her courteous words dying in her throat. With each step towards the looming red building the tremor in her hands seemed to become more apparent. She clasped them in front of her in an effort to hide it and even when her grip on herself became so tight it hurt, but she did not let go. 

When she stepped over the threshold of the temple, her heart felt like it was thunderously beating against her chest with all the force of artillery firepower. She felt short of breath, like she had just been running away from a dangerous foe, and, though it was a cool evening, sweat dripped down her back causing the shift underneath her navy dress to cling to her skin uncomfortably.

Sansa took a deep, almost ragged breath and kept walking forward with the group. 

“Who would like to go first?” the preacher asked as he stood in front of the altar.

Sansa felt sick. Why was it suddenly unbearably hot?

“Oh, we will!” Lollys exclaimed, her hand shooting up. 

Lollys excitedly linked her arm through her groom’s and all but dragged him to the front. A few quiet chuckles could be heard from the men and Lolly’s intended raised an amused eyebrow at her antics before nodding his assent to Beric Dondarrion to start.

As the preacher performed the first short ceremony, Sansa tried to find something to focus on other than her exponentially mounting anxiety. The sweat on her skin felt sticky and clammy, but cool at the same time, causing her to shiver.

“The Lord of Light came to us in the darkness and offered us salvation,” Beric’s voice barely filtered through to Sansa, but the loud snort from someone beside her did.

Sansa glanced to her side just in time to see Mister Clegane roll his eyes and give an exasperated sigh. He had his arms crossed over his chest, the fingers on the hand closest to her idly drumming on his bicep.

Sansa chose to focus on the man’s long, thick fingers, finding the objects or other individuals in the temple were not able to hold her attention and that her eyes kept leaping distractedly between them.

The beat he set was slow. He was bored and probably did not even realise what he was doing.

Sansa counted the beats, using it to try and steady her breathing.

“And it is through Him that I bind your two souls together, from now until death parts you,” the preacher finished.

Sansa looked up in time to see a very happy Lollys dipped as her new husband kissed her. She squealed enthusiastically and wrapped her arms around his neck. The couple seemed to forget themselves for a few moments until Beric cleared his throat loudly and asked the next couple to step forward.

Shae and her groom took their place while the new Mister and Missus Blackwater moved off to one side to sign their marriage certificate that Mister Myr held.

Sansa swallowed around the lump in her throat. Had the red walls of the temple stood this close together when they had arrived? 

Despite shivering, she wanted to fan herself with her hand as the room suddenly felt stifling hot. Each breath felt shaky, like she was struggling to draw air into her lungs. The effect was dizzying and the only tool at her disposal to combat it was the languid tapping of Mister Clegane’s fingers against his arm.

“Next, please,” the preacher called once more.

Icy tendrils of panic had slowly been creeping up her spine since the ominous red temple had come into view, but when Ray turned expectantly to her, Sansa felt like she had suddenly been doused with a bucket of cold water.

“That’s us. Move it, wife!”

The lecherous man from earlier, who she now knew to be Walder Frey, pushed past Sansa, causing her to lose her footing and stumble backwards into Mister Clegane. Strong hands caught her instantly, steadying her, and a resulting low, rumbling growl followed. Sansa snapped her head up, but Mister Clegane’s eyes had followed the old man who now stood in front of the altar with his boney hand clamped around Joy’s arm. 

The scarred man’s grey eyes fell back to hers and Sansa looked away immediately. She felt the hands that had steadied her twitch slightly and for the briefest of moments she thought they were going to tighten in anger, but just as quickly as he had caught her, he released her.

“T-Thank-you, Mister Clegane,” Sansa whispered.

The man grunted in response.

“Do both parties consent to this marriage?” Beric began.

“Yes,” Walder snapped, his grip tightening on Joy’s arm until she winced. “Get on with it.”

Beric hesitated for a moment, looking to Joy to confirm her consent for him to proceed with the wedding ceremony. “Miss Erenford?”

Joy’s mouth opened and closed a few times, at a loss for words. Her eyes flitted back and forth between the women she had spent a month traveling with and her groom. The fear was evident on her young face and she looked at each of them with an almost pleading expression.

“It’s your choice, Joy,” Lollys said gently. “He’s gotta pay for a return ticket if you say no. You can just go back.”

_ ‘Only she does not have a choice, not really.’ _

Sansa knew Lollys was trying to be helpful, to let Joy know that even though she had come this far, had traveled all those miles across the continent, that she could still change her mind and go back home.

_ ‘Except she does not have a home to return to.’ _

Sansa understood Joy’s predicament all too well. She was a young girl without a family to support and protect her, cast out into the big, scary world and, for the first time, she was all on her own. The options laid before her were limited and none of them were pleasant. On the one hand she could marry the licentious, old codger, become his lawfully wedded and bedded wife, and hope he popped his clogs sooner rather than later; on the other, she could return on the stagecoach to Vale City where she would be a penniless street urchin, a girl on the cusp of womanhood who would be at the mercy of whomever she encountered.

Tears welled up in Joy’s eyes, but she bit her lip hard in an effort to try to stave them off. She nodded her head quickly, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground as the preacher started the ceremony.

_ ‘Better the Devil you know, that’s what she thinks.’ _

Sansa was surprised to feel the sharp prick of tears herself. Joy was more girl than woman and here she was selling herself to an old pervert in return for security. She would give herself to him in mind, body, and spirit and in return he would keep a roof over her head and food in her belly.

_ ‘You will regret it, Joy.’ _

Sansa shuddered as memories she had been so stalwartly trying to suppress over the last month threatened to overwhelm her. Despite no one touching her, she could feel cold hands on her skin, ghosting over her waist... Subtle touches grazing her breasts and thighs that were so light one might think they had not occurred... Hot breathy whispers pressed into the back of her neck... Twisted promises of love dripping from saccharine lips... Being cornered with no one to turn to and knowing that there was no one who would help her…

Bile rose in Sansa’s throat and her skin felt like a thousand cockroaches were crawling all over it. Terror dug its sharp talons deeper into her as memories of what she had left behind in Vale City assaulted her.

_ ‘Don’t do it, Joy. It will not be worth it.’ _

She thought the words, she believed them with every fibre of her being because she had  _ lived them _ , but still they did not pass her lips.

“If anyone here objects to these two being joined in the holy union of matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Uh, yeah,” Shae cleared her throat, interrupting the ceremony. Everyone turned to the Lorathi woman in surprise, even her new husband, but she did not seem fazed in the slightest. “Joy, there’s still  _ him _ .”

Sansa saw the man stood besides her stiffen as all those present shifted their gazes from Shae to Mister Clegane.

“I mean… Obara, you’re not marrying him, are you? So, he’s without a wife,” Shae continued, shrugging her shoulders.

Joy glanced nervously at Mister Clegane, let out a tiny squeak, and if possible, seemed to shrink into herself even more. She shook her head quickly, her eyes once again fixed on the floor.

“Of course she don’t want the bloody Hound!” Walder croaked out cruelly. “Get on with it, Reverend!”

_ ‘Don’t do it, Joy.’ _

From somewhere in the distance, Sansa heard a cloying, mawkish voice call her  _ “sweetling” _ , but she knew she was imagining it.

_ “Shhhh, sweetling. You cannot save her,” _ the voice whispered, closer now.

_ ‘No… Dead men do not talk. Dead men do not talk,’ _ Sansa repeated in her mind over and over again, trying to shut it out.

_ “Sweetling,”  _ the syrupy voice was ever so condescending, _ “you cannot save her. Just as you cannot escape me.” _

“Don’t,” Sansa whimpered her eyes shut tight to try and block out the voice.

She did not see Mister Clegane’s tapping halt or him glance down at her.

_ ‘Don’t let him pour words into your ears anymore. Don’t let him make you feel powerless. Don’t believe his lies anymore.’ _

_ “Sweetling,” _ the voice warned.

_ ‘He’s a dead man. He’s dead and rotting in the ground. You put him there. He cannot control you anymore.’ _

“Don’t,” Sansa spoke again, this time not only in response to the voice, but also to warn Joy.

To warn Joy that while she may not feel the pangs of hunger from a growling belly or the bitter biting winds of a Winter blizzard when the seasons changed from inside her husband’s home, her stomach would roil so violently it would take everything inside of her not to be sick every time he reached for her with his cold, boney fingers. 

To warn Joy that living with a man whom she feared and was disgusted by day in, day out would become a living hell from which there was no escape - not until the Stranger came for one of them. 

To warn Joy that in what will seem like an eternity, but in fact will amount to barely any time at all having passed, she would be praying to the Stranger that it is her he takes when he darkens their doorstep.

No one seemed to have heard her, so Sansa spoke louder. “Don —”

“ — I bind your two souls together, from now until death parts you.”

She was too late.

Before Beric Dondarion had finished his sentence, Walder Frey lurched forward and pressed a grotesque, open-mouthed kiss onto his new bride’s lips and the tears that poor, frightened, young Joy had tried so valiantly to fight finally fell.

She was too late. Petyr was right, she could not save her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun...!
> 
> So... What do you think will happen next? What do you hope will happen next?
> 
> Thank-you for reading and please leave a review! I reply to all my reviews <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one last couple left to wed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you so much to everyone who has left kudos, has subscribed and an especially big thank-you to those of you who have left comments!

Her nervousness was to be expected, Ray supposed. However, the shuddery breaths, the slight tremor he had spotted in her slender fingers before Preacher Dondarrion had bid them to join hands, and the paleness cast across her already porcelain-like complexion were not. These little observations were subtle, hardly noticeable really, but when combined they belied his bride’s efforts to appear calm and collected, and instead suggested that her agitation transcended mere anxiety over the wedding ceremony and her immediate future as his bride. If he were still a gambling man - and he was not, having not partook in such activities for many a year now - Ray would wager the girl was _afraid_.

_The girl_. That was another unexpected occurrence today. When Ray had arrived on Main Street to find the mail order brides congregated around the late stagecoach he had looked between the younger and older redheaded women present, glancing back and forth a time or two, before quickly making up his mind that the older of the pair was the woman he had sent for. He knew to expect a bride with red hair and Ros Turnippe had informed him that she was three-and-thirty years old. The more senior of the two redheads had looked to be on the other side of forty, while he had assumed the younger woman to be barely passed twenty. Perhaps it was good that Ray was no longer a gambler, as his guess had been wrong and he had mistakenly assumed that Melisandre Dondarrion was his bride instead of the much younger, much more beautiful, Ros. He had been expecting a woman and had received a girl.

Though Ray was not grumbling, not when he was marrying a girl as lovely as the one before him. He had been taken aback that she appeared so much younger than her age, but the girl - _nay,_ woman - before him was most certainly a woman flowered and grown.

“She’s the same age as you,” Ray had told Sandor one evening many moons ago. They had been sitting on the porch of the home they shared, enjoying the quiet of the evening drawing in. Ray had been reading through the first letter Ros had sent him, the letter she had introduced herself with.

Sandor had made a non-committal sound, not looking up from the wood he was whittling. The man did not want to be drawn into yet another conversation about him taking a wife, but Ray knew he was slowly, albeit extremely reluctantly, coming around to the idea of it as the Lannisters’ reach extended evermore nearer to Kennel Keep and consumed evermore ranches in its wake. 

Sandor was ornery as an old mule with toothache when it came to any big changes he encountered. He was more than content to stick to the status quo, forever digging his heels in whenever something threatened to alter it. However, Ray truly felt that a wife would do him good. Someone kind-hearted and who possessed no small amount of patience to put up with and see past his foul temper and even fouler mouth, for beneath the rough, seemingly frightening exterior, lay the long-suffering soul of a man who so desperately needed to be shown warmth and tenderness and _love_. Sandor would sooner cut his tongue out than admit it, but Ray was sure that deep down Sandor sorely wanted to be loved.

Ray loved him, as had his mother and sister, but this was not the kind of love he believed Sandor wanted to know, to feel. Sandor was an odd mixture of the son-cum-little brother he had never had. Over the years since Ray had first found the scarred giant of a man on the side of a mountain half a continent away - near-death, with his leg half-eaten by maggots, crazed from pain and dehydration, but still possessing enough presence of mind to beg Ray to end his suffering - Ray had been witness to the transformation the younger man had undergone. Sandor had changed from being a snarling, angry dog, who in his youth had been gobbled up whole by those in this world who had sought only to use him for his strength and size, and who had spat him back out when he was too old, too broken, and too unruly to continue serving his masters without question, into a man who through the years had slowly reclaimed parts of his humanity. In tiny morsels and little slithers, Sandor had gathered up these parts and kept them. Through the laborious, honest work they both undertook at their ranch, working the land and raising livestock, Ray knew that Sandor had at long last calved himself out a modicum of peace in his otherwise wretched life.

Ray had hoped that Sandor’s own mail order bride might be the one to help Sandor see that despite his bloodied, chequered past, he was a man still deserving of being treated with affection, gentleness and most importantly, that he was worthy of being _loved_. However, Miss Sand had failed at the very first hurdle: she had not been able to look past Sandor’s disfigurement. Ray knew that Sandor had not asked Melisandre for much regarding a wife during their very brief correspondence. He had only asked for two things. Firstly, a woman strong enough to endure a life so far removed from the airs and graces of city living, as being a rancher’s wife was not for the faint-hearted. The only other requirement he had noted down was that she be able to put up with his scars - not accept them, merely that any potential bride be able to stomach seeing them everyday. Melisandre had written back, asking for more information, for other specifications, so that she might be better equipped to match the man to the most suitable woman possible, but Sandor had been uncaring of height, age, weight, looks, prior marriages, religion, or skills any woman might possess. He had simply wanted someone who would be able to look upon his face without fear or revolution.

_‘Had that truly been too much to ask?’_ Ray thought. Ray glanced at his friend, who was stood at the back of the temple, behind the happy, newly married couples. Ray’s heart was heavy and sorrowful that only one of them would be returning with a new wife to their ranch.

“And do you, Raymund Brothers, in the presence of the Lord of Light and these witnesses gathered before you, take this woman to be your wedded and bedded wife?” Preacher Dondarrion asked.

“I do,” Ray replied, smiling at his pretty bride.

The one-eyed preacher turned to the young woman before him expectantly. “And do you, Rosaline Turnippe, in the presence of the Lord of Light and these witnesses gathered before you, take this man to be your wedded and bedded husband?”

The holy man’s question was met with silence. Silence that dragged on, and then on, and on…

Out of the corner of his eye Ray could see the other couples shooting each other concerned glances, whispering to one another while looking up at the pair in front of them at the altar. On the other side of him, the preacher shifted uncomfortably as he too waited for Ros’ answer.

“Ros?” Ray prodded gently, giving her hands that he held in his a reassuring squeeze.

“I- I- ...” The woman opened and closed her mouth a few times, seemingly having lost the power of speech. 

_‘More surprises…’_ Ray thought after he had searched his bride’s face for some clue as to what she might be thinking and found indecision swirling in her azure eyes - indecision and _fear_.

“Is she the one?” Sandor had asked four turns of the moon ago. 

In the time since he had begun his search for a wife, Ray had exchanged letters with a few women that Melisandre had presented to him as potential matches. Most had not gone past a letter or two, with either Ray or the potential match deeming the other unsuitable. However, he was currently on his sixth letter from one Missus Rosaline - _“please call me Ros”_ \- Turnippe.

“Is she the one…?” Ray repeated the question slowly, considering it. 

While time was of the essence in marrying to secure the government’s grant that would allow him to double his half of the ranch and thus make it harder for the Lannister patriarch to oust him from it, Ray did not want to rush into choosing a wife. He may be marrying for far more practical reasons than his first marriage, he still wanted to find a woman who would compliment him well. While Maria’s daddy’s shotgun at his back had most certainly been a powerful motivator for marrying his first wife, Ray had loved Maria with a fierce passion. When their son had been born a mere four months after their wedding, he had loved him just the same. No one could ever hope to replace either of them in his heart, but maybe, just maybe, he might be able to find a woman whom he could live alongside contently, that would bring him happiness and even children as the years progressed.

Ray had clearly been quiet too long as he thought on the matter as Sandor paused in his grooming of his black stallion. 

“What’s she like?” he asked, nodding at the letter in Ray’s hand.

Ray raised an eyebrow at his friend, surprised at the younger man’s curiosity. He certainly had not shown any interest in the earlier letters Ray had received from other women, probably thinking that if he did Ray would once again try to convince him to also take a wife. 

Sandor bristled at the man’s thoughtful regard, huffed and turned back to his horse’s flank.

“Don’t need ya wastin’ money on bringin’ a city girl out here, only for her ta turn tail and run when she realises what livin’ on a ranch is really like.”

Ray conceded that Sandor did have a point. “Hence why I’m not pickin’ the first woman who writes ta me, but this one here, this Ros, she seems like she could, indeed, be the right one.”

“She ever lived on a farm?”

Ray nodded. “As a girl, her daddy had a small homestead. When he passed, she moved to Vale City to look for work and married a local lad not long after. But since he died she’s been working as a chambermaid at some big, fancy hotel. Says she can do all the homemakin’ stuff a husband could be wantin’ - cookin’, cleanin’, sewin’...” Ray trailed off, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards as he thought about the rest of that particular list that had ended with _“ₐₙd ᵢ ₐᵢₙ'ₜ ₛₕy ᵢₙ bₑd ₙₑᵢₜₕₑᵣ”._

Sandor shot him a funny look.

“She’s witty too. Think that’s why I like her more than the others. Would be nice ta laugh with a woman again,” Ray continued.

Sandor snorted. He shook his head and moved down to brushing mud off his horse’s hocks. “Why the fuck would ya want a woman laughin’ at ya?”

Ray winced. He wondered if Sandor had ever had the opportunity to laugh with a woman; whether some girl had ever said something cheeky and caused him to erupt in that barking laughter of his, or whether he had ever said something humorous and caused a woman to giggle. Judging by what Sandor had just said, Ray doubted it. Ray was never one to pity Sandor for his past, but there was something unequivocally sad about that notion.

Ray chose his next words carefully. “There’s a difference ‘tween a woman laughin’ _at_ ya, and a woman laughin’’ _with_ ya.”

Sandor had huffed again, not looking up from his task. He did not believe his friend. In his, albeit limited, experience when laughter and women were combined, there was no such distinction. The most common reaction to his countenance, his scars, his size, was fright, followed closely by revolution. If there was laughter, it most certainly was not kind. Why any man would choose a woman over any others to be his wife based on the fact that he could laugh with her was beyond his understanding.

“Missus Turnippe?” the preacher asked, briefly filling the deafening silence in the temple. “This is where you say _‘I do’_ ”.

Ray’s bride’s eyes darted to the preacher, then just as quickly returned to him. Her hesitation confused him. Ros had been the one to initiate their correspondence, and had always been very forward in stating her willingness to accept his proposal of marriage, should he ask her. 

Ray watched a bead of perspiration drip from her hairline at her temple, run down the contour of her cheek and jaw, and come to rest underneath her chin. She opened her mouth and closed it, like a flailing trout plucked from a stream.

“I… I-”

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blew open the temple door, slamming it against the wall. The resulting _Bang!_ exploded through the room like a gunshot, causing all those in attendance to jump and snap their necks around to the entrance. More than one of the men reached for the guns at their hips reflexively. 

A nervous, slightly embarrassed titter rose from the temple’s occupants when they realised there was no threat.

Ray cleared his throat and joked, “I thought someone had come ta object then.”

The newly married couples chuckled. Ros did not. Preacher Dondarrion gave Ray a light-lipped smile, before turning to the redheaded young woman. She was staring wide-eyed at the open door of the temple. Her breaths she was drawing in were fast and short little spurts, like she was panicking.

“Missus Turnippe, for the last time, do you-”

“I do,” she answered rapidly, her eyes still on the open doorway.

The preacher breathed a sigh of relief, as did Ray.

“Then without further ado, it is through Him that I bind your two souls together, _from now until death parts you_.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahahaha... Who expected that?


End file.
